


A Prayer in the Godswood

by JonsaInTheNorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa fought a war to get them here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prayer in the Godswood

The room smells like a battlefield, with sweat and blood hanging like a mist in every corner. For all that it is a birthing chamber, it truly is the place where their war has finally been won. The young midwife who lets him in is startled when Jon rushes past her. So many times in the last nineteen hours has he wanted to do away with all decorum and propriety and charge the doors, but Sansa’s steady commands kept his force at bay.

She is beautiful even in the aftermath of labor. Her red hair shines against her pallid skin just as her blue eyes shine down at the tightly-wrapped bundle caressed in her arms. Without glancing up, she beckons to him, “Come and meet your child, love.”

Jon leans against the bedside and stares at the little face in her arms. Lazily, the child’s eyes flutter open, and a small hand reaches for his offered thumb. Her eyes are lilac, light and dainty, Targaryen to their core, but her tufts of hair are all Tully, bright and auburn against her dark blue blanket.

“Daenrya darling, this is your father.” His wife coos, and finally she looks up at Jon. He places a careful kiss against Sansa’s brow, like he has after every birth he’s attended at her side, for ill or not.

“Thank you, San, thank you so much.” His words are quiet, and cannot quite ever display the intense emotions that fill him now, love and pride and joy and sadness all mixed into one.

Seven births has he attended at her side, two has he missed, and three children to show for it. Their first daughter, lost too early in the Long Night, and many others gone before their time. He knows it is hard on Sansa, to lose them so often, but they have Torrhen and Eddard, and now, finally, their little girl. 

“I fear there must be no more, your grace, for Lady’s Sansa’s health.” The midwife says, her words punctuating the air between them like a sword through ice. “Even this little one was too much on her. She’ll need rest and quiet for weeks to come.”

Jon nods, and asks the midwife to wake their boys. This was not new information. He swore to Sansa, pleaded even, that he needed no more, not when it meant he might lose her each time. But Sansa wanted a daughter of her own, and asked him so much and prayed so hard that he could only help her do it.

He looks at his daughter, yawning in her mother’s arms. “She’s so beautiful.”

“She has your nose. Arya’s nose.” Sansa says, her voice quiet. Arya disappeared across the sea many years ago, exploring the wider world. She couldn’t stand to see Winterfell so empty and lifeless without their brothers roaming within its walls, but now they have this little girl, named for his cousin and his aunt both. “Look, she even scrunches it like you both.”

And it’s true. Daenrya’s nose is bunched up against her eyes, her mouth wide open as she squeezes his hand. Jon laughs, and tells his wife, “She has your grip.”

Her glare is fierce but her eyes are loving. They watch their little girl with reverent awe, until finally they are joined by their two sons. Torrhen approaches them carefully, but little Ned scampers onto the other side of the bed.

“Mama, she doesn’t look like me!” He wines, and pouts his bottom lip. “Are you sure she isn’t Aunt Dany’s daughter?”

They never would have named their fierce four-year-old after Eddard Stark, had he not looked more like Sansa’s father than even Jon did. With every passing day, his long face turned more solemn and his brown hair grew even darker.

 A laugh comes from Torrhen, their eldest son and heir, nearing three-and-ten and already ready to be a great knight. With his mother’s eyes and his father’s hair, he has her kindness, his laugh, and both their love of songs and stories. “Of course she’s our sister. Or else how’d she get that head of hair?”

The boys coo and make faces at little Daenyra, and the little wonder emits a peal of laughter like winds whispering in the godswood. This was his family, his and Sansa’s. They had so little left in this world but for each other and their children, but even that was enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


End file.
